Sickness and Health
by Naika Grover
Summary: Sherlock always looked to Molly for help. So, when the pathologist falls violently ill, it is upto him to comfort her, and care for her too.
1. Chapter 1

Molly was tired. Exhausted even. After all, performing autopsies on five different bodies, combined with the four extra shifts she had taken, and the mountain of paperwork that awaited her after her holiday, had sapped her of all the energy she had.

She climbed the last few steps to her apartment. Strangely, she felt a little light headed. Probably from fatigue, she reasoned. She stood in front of her door, fumbling for her keys. After almost an eternity, she found them in her bag, and she opened her door.

Sherlock was sprawled across the couch, as usual, in his usual thinking posture, consisting of hands steeped under the chin, and a blank, unfocused look in his eyes. He did not notice her coming into the flat. And, today, she did not seem to notice him either.

She made a beeline straight to the kitchen. The walk from the hospital had been refreshing, yes, but it also made her thirsty. She opened her fridge, took out a bottle of water, opened it, and drank it. Then, she went to her room, and then her bathroom, to wash, change and relax a little.

When she reappeared from her room, clean and sweet smelling, she noticed that he was in the same position. She went over to the couch, and poked him. He blinked thrice, startled by the sudden intrusion from the outside world, and stared at her, demanding an explanation. She pointed at the television. "I want to sit on the couch and watch TV" she stated.

He obliged her by removing himself completely from the couch. She did not care to look where he went, just as long as he was not bothering her. Around dinner time, she got up. Not feeling quite hungry, she decided to just snack on some crisps and have a glass of juice. Settled comfortable in front of the television again, she ate, until, feeling quite drowsy, she went to her bedroom to sleep.

About midnight, she suddenly woke up. She blinked in confusion, surprised that she was not dreaming. Why on earth did she wake up? She smelled the air. No, nothing burning, nothing exploding, nothing blasting. Then what made her wake up so abruptly. Her answer came in the form of a feeling of nausea.

She made it to the bathroom in record time. Leaning over the toilet rim, she let go of her entire dinner, lunch, breakfast, and all other contents of her stomach. After heaving a few times, she sat down on the cold floor, which suddenly seemed very inviting to her still sleep-warm body. She closed her eyes, and took shallow breaths from her mouth. Was she suffering from food poisoning?

She felt bile rise up to her throat again. This happened at least five times, until Molly was sure that she would retch her stomach out. She was shivering violently. She could never handle being sick, and right now, she was very, very sick. Black dots appeared in her vision, and however hard she tried, she could not blink them away. She settled for sitting on the floor, holding her knees, eyes closed, head tucked in between legs, and breathing lightly. She was shaken by all the vomiting.

She heard a knock on the door, and without thinking, she whispered loudly, "Come in"


	2. Chapter 2

After Molly's rude intrusion into his thoughts, Sherlock decided that he needed to go to a place where he would not be disturbed. Quietly, he left Molly's flat, and went up the stairs to the rooftop. He loved it here, as nobody could see him, yet he could see everybody and everything, including the London skyline. He sat, cross legged, on the edge, and went back to his interrupted thoughts again.

After thinking for almost three hours, Sherlock solved the case. Moriarty had his men hiding out somewhere with little or no surveillance, and they were dressed as commoners, to avoid attention. He knew where they were now. Taking out his phone, he texted Mycroft the address. Let the government handle this, he thought.

Sherlock climbed off his perch, and stretched a little. He then went down to Molly's flat, taking care that no loud noises are made. He knew from experience that handling a sleep-deprived Molly was worse than handling Jim Moriarty's entire network.

He sat down on the couch again, about to go deep into his thoughts, when he heard the sound of running feet, followed by the loud banging of a door, and faint noises of somebody vomiting. He frowned a little. Molly did not drink anything at all, so why was she puking? Perhaps she was suffering from some mild case of hyperacidity, he mused.

When he heard her vomit almost four times over, he got up. It was not natural for someone with acidity to throw up so many times, especially since she had eaten so little, going by the fact that there were no freshly washed dishes in her sink. He decided to find out for himself what was wrong.

Going to the bathroom door, he knocked. It was answered by a very raspy and tired, "Come in". He opened the door to find a shivering, pale and sweaty Molly. He was a little worried. Bending down, he reached out for her hand. Her fingers were cold as ice. He then gently pulled her face up, despite groan emerging from her, and checked her temperature with his hand. Her forehead was burning, and she did not open her eyes or acknowledge him. Not knowing what else to do, he sat down beside her, as she groaned, holding her knees closer, and put her head down.

They sat for almost half an hour on the floor, Molly groaning occasionally as her stomach cramped, and Sherlock sitting there, staring into space. He did not know what to do. Yes, he had been sick before, but he always had a doctor or two around him, John, or more recently, Molly. And they always took care of him. He never had to take care of any other human in his life. This was not going well. If Molly was ill, he would have to do something about it, as however much they stayed out of each other's way, since the fated fall, he still needed her. And now, when she actually needed comfort and care, he was inadequate. He knew she needed some kind of medicine. But what kind of medicine?

He tried going back to his mind palace, trying to sort through all the information about illness. He came up with a few suggestions, but none of them were about food poisoning. This was absolutely ridiculous! He knew how to manage a gunshot wound with nothing but stapler pins and water, but he did not know how to treat a case of food poisoning.

Sherlock jumped off the floor, and ran out, where he took out his laptop, turned it on, and began searching. To treat a case of food poisoning, one article said, the patient must be kept hydrated at all times, else dehydration would worsen the condition of the patient. ORS is a must, the patient must have adequate rest, if fever persists, and cold cloths must be applied to the forehead. He scanned through many articles, and noted down the medicines. Turning away from the machine, he went to the kitchen, and scanned her medical supplies kit for the necessary medications. Luckily, she had everything he needed. He prepared the solution for her, took another glass of water, and a few tablets.

Armed thus, he entered the bathroom, not bothering to knock. Molly was still on the bathroom floor, in the same position, but he noticed that she was tenser, and her shivering had increased. He bent down, carefully balancing all the items on a tray on his hand, and gently shook her.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly felt, rather than saw or heard Sherlock enter the bathroom after knocking. She felt was too scared to open her eyes, knowing that if she did, the whole room would start spinning and it would make her feel nauseous again. She preferred to sit on the floor, not daring to move much, lest the slightest movement caused her pain. Her stomach had a dull ache that seemed to increase in its intensity every few minutes. She felt something warm against her hands and something cool on her forehead. She liked the sensation a lot, and wished a little that whatever it was, it would not be removed. Sadly, just as she thought of this, it went away, leaving her feeling cold and hot at the same time, coupled with cramps in her stomach.

She hated being sick. There was no fun in being so sick you could not even enjoy a bowl of chicken soup. The thought of chicken soup made her stomach turn ominously, so she tried to not think of any kind of food. She instead settled for thinking about her life, introspecting about her career, her family, her friends, and everything else. Her thoughts hummed around in her head, and she felt as though she was not lying on the cold bathroom floor anymore. Instead, she felt that she was floating, somewhere just out of reach of the physical realm, where no pain could be felt, and no emotions were bad. She liked this feeling a lot, and decided to stay there for a little while. She could almost see her thoughts and memories float around her, in little bubbles, not disturbing her, just floating serenely beside her. She saw every memory play itself out like a video, and she just sat, fascinated by how a sick body made her mind function differently.

A movement beside her brought her back to reality. She wondered what it was. She tried opening her eye a little, only to shut it tightly a few nanoseconds later. The brightness of the bathroom light, coupled with the room which seemed to dance a jig in front of her eyes, made her feel worse. She wished that she could just tell the room to stop doing the tango, and stay still.

After thinking thus, she went back into her mind. The pain in her stomach decreased when she did so, and it felt much better not having to constantly think about how not to throw up because of slight movements. She felt lighter, like she could float away again. She smiled in her mind, and thought how being sick actually made her think funny thoughts, like floating away. Her thoughts went back to her first memory of being in a morgue, of how she had almost collapsed because of the stench, but, just to prove a point, she stayed put on her feet, though the body and the tray had seemed to sway at that time. She thought of the first time she met Sherlock, on how, he had come in, trying to make a dramatic entry, but was rewarded by silence. She did not always admire how he tried to show off his knowledge, especially when it degraded the reputation of others.

She felt a hand on her shoulder shaking her. Though the movement was supposed to be gentle, it seemed as though as an earthquake had suddenly hit her. Her head began to spin again, and she quickly shut her mouth, afraid that she might heave all over again.

After taking a few seconds to compose herself, she opened her eyes a little. Sherlock was crouched on the floor, right beside her shivering form, and was holding a tray piled with glasses of water, liquids, and tablets. She would have laughed loudly at him if she could. He was giving her medicine? She settled instead for a small smile, one that barely reached her half-open eyes.

" Th-th-tha-nk you" She managed to stutter. Funny, that brought her attention to her body, which was shaking and shivering intensely. How did she not notice it before? She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. It worked only a little. Her shivering reduced a little, but enough for her to ensure that her teeth did not chatter when talking.

She heard him say something like "Have your medicine." He was telling her to have her medicine? He would stubbornly sit on her couch and refuse to take pain medications while she stitched up the wounds on his body, just to prove a point to, well, nobody, that he could survive without pain management medications. He was telling her to have her medicines. Again, she would have laughed loudly, if she was not so sick.

She nodded mutely, and extended a shivering hand, a gesture which meant that the medication should be put on her hand, and she would take them by herself. He gave her one of the pills. She put it in her mouth, but before she could gesture for the water, she felt the rim of the glass near her mouth. Why was he doing this? She tried to throw him a questioning look.

"Drink." He ordered her in his commanding baritone. She was in no mood to fight him, physically or mentally, so shrugging mentally in her mind, she sipped a little water, afraid that if she took too much in one go, it would all come out again.

He repeated the exercise with her for two other pills, and then made her drink a glass of something that tasted like orange juice, but looked like water. _ Oral Rehydration Solution_, her medical self told her shivering, emotional, messy self. She managed to drink half the glass, before she felt a lot of water coming up her throat. Shoving his hand aside, she quickly went over to the rim of the toilet, and threw up water. Lots of water. This was not good. She felt something keep her trussed up hair out of the way, at the same time she also felt something rubbing her near her shoulders as she choked once or twice, before throwing up.

Doing thus, she sat back again, this time exhausted. The vomiting and dehydration had begun to take its toll on her. She sat back, aware only of cold hands and the cold tiled floor, before she completely blacked out.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock, though a stranger of emotions, had felt a twinge of concern for the pathologist. He knew how painful food poisoning could be, especially in a case so severe. He shook her awake, and told her that she needed to take some medicines. She had just smiled a little.

That smile made him worried. It was tight, and painful, and looked ill. It was almost imperceptible. She thanked him for his help. More like stammered a' thank you' through her chattering teeth. He wondered whether she was shivering due to the cold night and floor, or because she was actually tense due to all the vomiting. Till now, she had only thrown up bile, and food, he noted, so dehydration had not set in yet. That was good news.

She put out a pale, visibly shaking hand towards him. He put a pill on it, and she somehow managed to put it inside her mouth without it falling out. He decided that trusting a glass of water in her shaking hands would mean that all the water would end up on her and the floor, not in her. So, as the most logical option, he decided to put the glass near her mouth, and helped her drink the water. She seems to be a little tense the first time, but eventually, after he coaxed her, she drank some. Not a lot, just a little sip, enough to ensure the smooth passage of the tablet down her throat.

After repeating this for all the other tablets, she had leaned back a little. She looked a little better. The paleness in her face had reduced, and she was opening her eyes a lot more. He decided to make her drink the ORS, just in case. He put the glass near her lips, and tipped it, letting the water slide in.

Halfway down the glass, her eyes suddenly widened, and she pushed his hand aside. He removed it, and watched her as she bent over the rim, and threw up water. He tried to remember what people do to others when they are throwing up. He remembered his mother holding his hair back and rubbing his shoulder. He decided to try it out on the pathologist.

He pulled her hair back from her face, ensuring that they did not get dirty, and rubbed her on her back, between her shoulder blades. He did not look at her as she threw up, just kept rubbing and keeping her hair out of the way. She suddenly started shivering even more violently. After a few minutes of throwing out every single medicine she had ingested, she sat back, against the wall, trying to take a few deep breaths, as he kept rubbing her back. It seemed to comfort her, if ever so little.

He suddenly felt her go limp, like a rag doll. He immediately checked her pulse. It was there, but not very strong. He checked her temperature. By the feel of it, he estimated her temperature to be around 104 degrees right now. Her lips looked parched and dry. He was surprised at how quickly, and how suddenly, she got dehydrated. Her eyes looked sunken, her face paler than before, her lips dry and slightly open, hair stuck to her face due to sweat. She was breathing lightly, and through her mouth. She was burning up with fever.

Sherlock just sat there. What was he supposed to do? She just fainted. He did not know what to do with people who fainted due to dehydration. Well, he knew they should be put in an intravenous drip, but she was not in such a bad shape yet.

_Think! What would John do if you had food poisoning, and just fainted?_

He imagined John would try and take him to bed, make him comfortable, and whenever he would wake up, give him the suitable medication. But John was a doctor, Sherlock was not. And right now, Molly needed a doctor, not a consulting detective.

Sherlock sat and stared at Molly. He was panicking, he finally admitted to himself. What was he thinking? Trying to give medication to molly? He was out of his mind! This was not his area of expertise. He cannot take care of her. He should probably ask Mycroft to send a doctor over, just to take care of her. Why did he even think that he could take care of her? What made her think so? He was-

Sherlock took a deep breath. It would not be helpful if he ran away right now, even though every nerve in his transport screamed "_RUN!" _ He forced himself to sit and think. What could he do? He began to go through the procedures in his head.

After a minute of thinking, he got up, and went over to the unconscious form of Molly. He put one arm behind her, and tried to make her stand. He pulled one of her arms over his shoulders, and, half dragging and half carrying Molly, he took her to her room.

He tried to lay her on the bed as gently as he could, but she ended up sprawled on the bed, her arm in an awkward position. He had to reposition her several times before she was lying on her back, limbs intact. He pulled the duvet out from under her, and used it to cover her up. Her shivering had decreased, but she was still very cold to touch.

Doing so, he sat down on the floor. What was he supposed to do now? How was he going to wake her up? What if she did not wake up? What if he gave her the wrong medication? Sherlock knew the medicines were right, but there was always a 33.3% chance that she was allergic to at least one out of the three medicines he had given her. What if she..?

Sherlock stopped this train of thought. According to him, it was absolutely useless, and illogical to think about what could have happened. Right now, he had to make sure that Molly was fine.

He heard the sound of cloth rubbing against cloth. He turned. Molly was lying there, muttering something. She was moving. She was not still. She was fine!

He got up from his sitting position on the floor, and looked at her. Though she looked weak, she was mumbling. He went a little closer, trying to catch her words.

" Don't.. No.. I am fine.. Coffee?. You don't eat.. What?.. Sherlock, no.."


	5. Chapter 5

Molly had dreams. She had dreams of being in the morgue. She had dreams about her father, and her childhood. And she had dreams about Sherlock. Of Sherlock asking her to bring coffee. Or Sherlock asking her for help, telling her she mattered. Of how, by experience, she discovered the little quirks and habits of Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective in the world. She dreamt of many things, random, not so random, funny, hilarious, depressing, sad, moody…. Many things which might not have made sense to her had she not been ill.

She felt herself come to, little by little, back to reality. A cold thing was pressed to her forehead. She tried to move without disturbing it much. Her back felt sore, and a little strained. How long had she been asleep? She had to get to work. She might be late for her shift. Oh god! She tried to get up, only to have a throbbing headache assault her senses, and finding herself lying back down on the bed again. She moved, and the cold thing slipped down towards her neck.

Molly opened her eyes tentatively. It was dark, comfortable, but warm. Far too warm. Why was it so warm? It was not the summer or even spring season. It should be cool, not warm. She tried to stretch her limbs out, to find them trapped. What? Was she badly tangled into her blankets? She looked down a little. Somehow, she had been burrito-wrapped in two, no, three blankets. Three blankets? Why- Oh.

It came back to her. She had been violently ill, and had passed out on the bathroom floor. Sherlock had been there, giving her medicines when she had fainted. Sherlock did this? She looked about the room now, her vision adjusting better to the dim lighting. Her room was the same as before, but she had been tucked into bed. It was afternoon. She had been sick a night before. And, somewhere near her legs, was a wig of curly hair splayed across the sheets. She tried to sit up without moving too much, the cold washcloth falling completely off her forehead. It was human, breathing and alive, not fainted, but asleep. Sherlock was asleep.

Her fever-addled brain took a few seconds to process this information. Sherlock was actually asleep. He was breathing slowly and deeply, his face turned away from the girl. He was in deep sleep, his fingers twitching as he chased another criminal in his dreams. He started a little, and then adjusted his position, so this time, he was facing her. She looked at his face, child-like and without worry, lips parted, occasionally giving out a puff of air, curls falling irregularly over his sculpted face. He looked _years_ younger, almost as though someone had replaced him with his young self. He muttered something again, and his hands moved to draw a circle of sorts.

She did not have the heart to disturb him. He would have slept now after five days. It was ridiculous how he could stay awake for so long, but he was used to it. She guessed her illness would have sapped him of energy. After all, he was used to taking care of corpses, not real and sick humans.

She turned slowly, holding the blankets close to her shoulders as she did, towards the bed-side table, to get her thermometer. It took her a few seconds, for her hands were shivering, and her fingers felt weak. Finally, she managed to pull out the thermometer. She checked her temperature. 100.8. It was not bad, but she still felt weak. She replaced the thermometer, and tried to swallow, realising that her throat was absolutely dry. She lay back in bed, her head swimming slightly from all the effort. Effort? She just checked a temperature. It was ridiculous. She was drained of strength, and it took sheer willpower to keep her eyes open, trained on the slowly moving ceiling fan. But she gave in after a while. Her eyes closed, and she snuggled into the blankets, feeling cold on being exposed to the general surroundings. After burrowing in, she inhaled a little more, and was soon fast asleep, thinking about the rare moment of truth where she saw Sherlock, asleep. He looked vulnerable, small, weak, easily hurt, and sad. Perhaps it was the real him. Perhaps it was not. Maybe all the layers of him she saw, ranging from sarcastic, to smirking, to sad, lonely, wanting, angry, furious, insulted, annoyed, bored and thoughtful were Sherlock. Maybe none of them were Sherlock. Molly would never know.

As she slept, the detective awoke, having felt some movement near his head. He had tucked Molly in when he saw her temperature spike to 103 degrees, and had applied a washcloth over her forehead to keep the fever down. Somewhere in his ministrations, he would have fallen asleep.

Sherlock rose gently from the bed, afraid to cause too much movement which might wake the pathologist. She had covered herself with the blanket nearly till the top of her ears, and all that he could see was brown hair, covering most of the pillow. He searched for the cloth with his eyes, and then found it nestled in her hair and pillow. He decided to leave it there, unwilling to wake her just to remove a piece of cloth. She needed rest. He checked the time. She had been asleep for almost fourteen hours now, and he for half an hour. He stretched a little, easing out his stiff muscles, for he had been sitting cross legged in front of her almost the whole night, and day, upto the time he had dozed off. He was tired, exhausted even. And he developed a strange new respect for john, for being able to handle him so well whenever he was ill.


	6. Chapter 6

Molly awoke again, this time during the night, as apparent by the darkness seen from her bedroom window, and the moonlight which was streaming in. She felt much better, almost fine, until her stomach did a little flip. But this time, the flip did not make her feel nauseous or like throwing up. Maybe as there was nothing to throw up. But nevertheless, she ran to the toilet.

Shutting the door behind her, she took a few deep breaths, and steadied herself. She held on to the sink, and swayed momentarily, her mind thinking that if she collapsed right now, there would be nobody to catch her from falling and most probably injuring herself on the cold tiled floor. That would be another addition to her slowly dwindling miseries, and she did not think of herself fit enough to care for a concussion or bump on the head.

She sat down on the floor, slowly, so as to not upset the delicate balance of her senses and mind. It was as though she was fighting a losing battle against her consciousness. On one side, there was her will to stay awake, and on the other, the winning side, was the body and it's need to stay unconscious. Why, she never knew. Well, she did, but she did not want to be asleep, or unconscious, especially for such long periods.

Water. She was dehydrated. Of course. That was the reason she was dizzy. But right now, she was in no state to move around anymore, let alone go hunting for water. Why did she come into the bathroom? Oh yes, her stomach, which decided to hold an orchestra of its' own, and made the funniest noises possible. It sounded like a whale, an ostrich, an octopus, and other creatures, all crying and clamouring for attention at once. It was horrible, and she held her stomach in a feeble attempt to keep it quiet.

After hugging herself for quite a while, her stomach noises died down, leaving an eerie silence around her. It was the loudest silence she had ever heard, louder than the one in the morgue. It wrapped around her like a worn cloak, comforting in its presence, yet stifling. She used to welcome the silence in the morgue, but at home, it made her feel scared and exposed. As though someone had seen all her secrets, and would use them against her. Her house was not supposed to be this quiet.

Seeing that she felt a little better, Molly decided to exit the bathroom. Her stomach had stopped it's unearthly noises, and she felt much more capable of standing and not toppling over like a bowling pin with a weak base. She got up, holding the sink again as a support, and slowly made her way out of the bathroom, and back into her bed.

When she reached her spot on the bed, she noticed the glass of water sitting beside it. She must have not noticed it when she sprinted towards the bathroom previously, like a cheetah. She took it, and tipped the entire glass down her throat in one sweeping motion. She was extremely thirsty. Dehydration perhaps. And this water had a slight taste of orange. So ORS. Thank goodness for small mercies Sherlock was being helpful.

She sat down, and then lay back on her pillow again, slightly disgusted by the smell. She actually stank. Must be all the sweat which helped bring her fever down. She got up a little, and took the thermometer to check the temperature.

" 99.8" It read. Good. She felt much better too. It was coming down, gradually, but coming down. That means that it was not a very dangerous bug. Good. She did not want to be sick for much longer. It was beginning to make her feel dull. Speaking of which, where was Sherlock? He was not to be seen or heard anywhere. He could have gone off on another case, how he was wont to do. Maybe he just wanted some air, and decided to exit the flat. Maybe he decided it was too much to care for her, and thought it best to leave when he saw her recuperating. That was the most probable reason. After all, it would have been highly taxing on him. She decided to go back to sleep again, her dreams whisking her away upon it's chariots of clouds.

Sherlock was sitting on the rooftop again, thinking, or perhaps, trying to not think about anything in particular and everything in general. He was not a machine, and he did possess a heart, though he claimed otherwise. Although his heart could never give anything easily. It had been hurt too much in its life, perhaps. Maybe that was why he kept it hidden away under an exterior of metallic steel, cold and unyielding. He hid his beating heart so that nobody could hurt it. But people did. Jim had threatened to burn it. John had cared for it, and would regularly feed it, remind it about its humanity. Molly would quietly stitch it back up and heal it whenever it would break or tear due to its self. Mrs. Hudson used to regularly calm it down, mellow it. Mycroft tried to create armours for it, though it was not necessary. People closest to him had a piece of his heart with them, caring for it, protecting it, nurturing it in their own ways. And he knew it. He knew it all. He knew that every person who owned a part of his heart owned a part of him too. Good, bad, ugly, abominable. They owned a part of the real Sherlock, the man behind the mask of logic. Mask? It was a part of him. It was him. Logic defined him, made him who he is today. Logic helped him survive, helped him live. But logic also isolated him. Logic was a wonderful servant, but a worthless master. It shaped him, but he created it. His external façade was a cold thing he had created as a blanket to protect himself from the real world and its cruel realities. To protect him from pain, from hurt, from everything negative in the sense of emotions.

But it was cracking.

His logical exterior cracked when he first met Mrs. Hudson. He dismissed it as a feeling he would have reserved for a mother figure in his life, which Mrs. Hudson seemed only too eager to fill. Then it chipped when he met John. John had filled in the spot of a brother, or a friend, one who knew him, and admired him, loved him, yet admonished him when needed, cared for him, cared about him. His shield began to drop, ever so little, whenever he was around john. And now Molly. Molly who silently protected him, taking in stride everything he said, accepting him, and not pushing him away even though he tried to do that to her. She had always been there for him, looking after him when he was at his lowest, before John came, after John left. She always stitched him up after he was wounded, bleeding openly, near dead.

That was the reason he decided to help her now. She was hurting, weak, ill, and unable to move on her own. And to leave her would be cruel. Sherlock Holmes was many things, but cruel, especially to people who held his heart.

He stirred. She might wake up now. He should go and check on her. If she was awake, she needed to drink something. She was utterly dehydrated. She needed him, and he would not abandon her now.


	7. Chapter 7

Molly had crawled back into her bed, feeling better but tired. The small bug had taken a lot out of her energy, and she felt utterly exhausted and spent. She heard the soft opening and closing sounds of wood against wood, just as she heard muffled footsteps. He had returned then. She snuggled deeper into her blankets, not quite liking the smell of sweat, but not having much choice about the matter either. She had closed her eyes momentarily, trying to get her mind back in order. Fevers always made her think in a strange, randomised manner, which made no sense to her once she thought about it after getting better. She began to sift through her thoughts, some broken, some with yellowed edges, some shiny new, some faded and old. But thoughts, nonetheless. Memories that made her who she was. Memories that made her understand the world around her, thoughts that helped her rationalise a world full of madness and misery into something that was mellowed and sensible, something which did not frighten her away easily. She loved her mind, it was her own, a creation of herself, a part of her being. She loved it, and did not want to change it for anyone in the world.

Sherlock had walked into the sleeping form of Molly. By the look of how her slippers were haphazardly placed on the floor and the looser form of the blankets wrapping her, he guessed that she had woken up once. Probably to drink some water, or go to the loo. He saw her face lie still in the moonlight, the ghost of a smile playing lightly upon her lips, right before they parted to let in a gush of cool air. He gazed at her face for a few seconds, thinking. Molly Hooper, the woman who mattered, the lady who helped him in dire times, the person he could trust, lay there. And Sherlock Holmes had no influence over her for a change. He could only observe her from the outside, look at the person that she was, keep his words to himself. He had come to terms with the fact, finally, that he could not control her, howsoever much he tried to. Control who she saw, control her time; control every fibre of her being. He had to let go, let go of the person he had called a friend, one who mattered the most to him, second only to the good doctor. He could wield no power over her, not anymore. Yes, there was a time when he could use her, pull the strings of her affection just like a master puppeteer, and get his work done. Not now, not anymore. Neither remained an enigma to one another now. Molly knew Sherlock, and his actions. She had broken free of him, and now, it was up to her if she wanted to continue with the friendship and camaderie they had formed over the months. If she wanted, he would remove himself from her life completely, and never come near her again, or let her even catch a whiff of his presence. If she wanted, he would stay for her, and help her in his own little manner, which would obviously include the blunt truth, but would be helpful in the long run. If. The weight of a thousand earths came heavily upon that one word. If….

Molly stirred a little, the soreness in her limbs relieved from the change in position. She was deep in her thoughts, perhaps even asleep, for her thoughts had enveloped her completely, making her dead to the reality outside of the bubble of her mind. Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts momentarily, shifting the weight of his transport off his feet, and sitting down on the floor beside her bed. He crossed his legs over, and looked at Molly. She looked tired, but better. Almost as though she was free. Perhaps she was, for she was not dragged down by the mass of the world, and it's million and three troubles. He let out an involuntary sigh. Sleeping was the human's way of escaping reality, for when one slept, everything was possible. People who were dead came back to life, all the joys and wants in the world were fulfilled. But the dead also remained dead, people had to face their fears, have all their hopes destroyed bit by bit. He hoped, or rather, a part of his mind hoped, that Molly did not have nightmares ever. It would be partly his fault if she did. He had taken her thoughts, feelings and emotions, and twisted them, bent them, forced them, left them, and then abandoned them so often, he was surprised she retained any at all.

A buzz in his coat alerted him. He sprung up, his eternal grace never failing him as he wafted over to where his dear coat was hung. He pulled his mobile phone out.

Molly felt much better after she had gone through most of her happier thoughts and the wistful ones too. She wished that she had more courage, more hope, more confidence, and a large helping of self-esteem since a young age. Perhaps then she might not have been such a door-mat for any human who was nice to her. Her conscience informed her that she felt obliged when a person, be it a random stranger, or her own family, talked nicely to her. She should not be. It was the duty of every human in the world to talk nicely to her, and if they did not, she should not entertain them in her life for any longer than necessary. Yet she did. If there was one misgiving in the nature of the sweet, gentle, kind and caring Molly Hooper, it was her willingness to be nice and to help every living being around her. She could not bear suffering at large, and tried to help each person in her own way, howsoever small. That trait had helped her become the way she was. She wanted an audience too, albeit one who would egg her on, tell her she was brilliant, beautiful, one that would gasp at her wonders, weep along and yet comfort her in the pits of despair that would hold her aloft when she would soar above the waves of happiness. She needed an audience, for she was a genius too, in her own right. Every genius needed an audience, and Molly Hooper withered for she had none.

Sherlock frowned a little at his phone. He then went over to check on Molly, not physically touching her, but mentally cataloguing every part of her. She seemed fine now, if not better. She would need to rest tomorrow, and by the day after tomorrow, she would be fine. Good.

He collected his coat and his scarf, hesitating a little when he saw the article of clothing lying below a furry feline. The aforementioned feline decided just then to raise its head, and ask the towering man in front of it an inquisitive question "Mrow?" Sherlock just smiled in reply, before bending down to collect his scarf. He and the cat had gotten off to a good start, and once he overlooked the manner in which the feline had shed its fur upon the man, he realised the two had shared many similar qualities. After tying his scarf, he bent down once again, and petted the feline upon its furred head. The cat pushed its head against his hand, enjoying the feel of skin against fur.

"Take care of her. She trusts you. And on no accounts let her go to the Mortuary tomorrow." He said, knowing it sounded foolish to talk to a cat. But the look he got in return banished such thoughts.

She had made her mind. Sherlock would stay in her life, but now as a friend, and nothing more. She had taken enough pain and hurt from him, without a word. Now, she would maintain a distance from him. She was an intelligent girl, pleasant to the eyes, witty, and everything that anyone would have looked for. She need not find her audience in someone who barely acknowledged her presence. No, from now, she would find new people. Meet them. And before it all, see their history. For she would be completing another cycle of life if that person were a consulting criminal, consulting detective, or a corpse. She decided to live her life again. Molly Hooper, the withered soul, would now start afresh, as a flower in bloom.

Right before he left, he stopped and wrote a note. She needed to know where he had kept her medicines, and when to take them, and how many. He placed this note on the fridge, where the water was kept. He then went over to the door, and opened it. When he was about to close it, he hesitated. But this was important.

"Take care, Molly." He said, before looking at his phone one last time. On the screen, in the basic texting font, was a message.

"Come Back. –JW"


End file.
